


Mortality

by JanuaryBlue



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Death from Old Age, Family Issues, Gen, Zenos has an Emotion but it totally passes him by
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21813274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: How do you know what fear is, the first time you feel it?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV Gift Exchange (2019)





	Mortality

As he slips away, impatient, unwilling to deal with any of these _nobodies,_ Zenos yae Galvus does something he doesn’t normally do.

He meets someone’s eyes – how rare, that someone would even dare, with hi-

Gold, bright and brilliant, gleaming and intense. A color warm and sharp at once, melting through him, stripping him to the core, straight into his _soul –_

Zenos blinks himself and the color is lost. A trick of the light.

Only when he turns to leave does he notice a sizeable space is left around him, as though the crowd has parted, backed away from him, in the time his eyes had met the Emperor’s. How strange. Off a nearby table he snatches a drink, some glass most likely left there by one noble or another, but no one will bother _him_ about it, none of them would dare.

Worthless, all of them.

Wine – so dry. It does nothing to quench him, and his tongue runs across his lips, dry and wanting. Throat tight as the gently burning liquid flows down, weak and aromatic, flavor without substance, all taste and no body, just like the people here. Just like the Emperor.

Perhaps that is what sets his tastes off. Seeing that wrinkled old man, giant and imposing for all the absurd armor he almost certainly did not fill out underneath. Such a pathetic show of false strength, of long-gone youth and vigor. The emperor’s skin is crinkled with age, hair bleached of color entirely.

The history books contain a handsome, youthful face. Not one entirely unlike Zenos’s own, in smooth beauty, though they clearly drew from different sources; Zenos his mother, and Solus… whichever of his insignificant parents he had taken after.

How _old_ the man looks now. If there is anything intimidating about him, it is what has _become_ of him. Once a fine and proud warrior – now a shriveled, dressed up old man, such a waste of metal plates and regalia. No matter how the man was trussed up, it would not change what laid beneath.

What awaits even Zenos, after enough time. He’s already seen the lines forming on his own father’s face, and Solus is his father’s _grandfather._

Such a wretched fate that is. To die to time. An implacable foe. However many armies he had commanded, however many victories he had won and nations he had conquered – Solus zos Galuvs knelt to the passing of years as surely as did any other man.

And yet, those eyes…

Without thinking, an arm has raised to his chest, adjusting his coat, tugging it forward in hands curled nearly to fists. Feeling at his ribcage with his knuckles, hidden under fine cloth, and the uncomfortable sensation within.

The presence of men and women shifting about him, strutting and posturing about and going to their places like pieces on a gameboard maneuvered by long, almost ghostly pale, wrinkled hands. Gilded eyes flitting about from on high, clad in ornate raiment that would make a man so frail worse than useless in a fight.

A man who did battle with words and glances, with subtleties and inane gestures of loyalty and favor. Playing politics masterfully indeed, clinging to the throne with an iron grip even until the very end. Unwilling to name an heir, regardless.

 _That_ sentiment was surprisingly wise. There might be some of that great warrior who’d led Garlemald to glory on countless battlefields – though much of his rhetoric had always rang hollow and false and _dull,_ clearly meant to charm the useless masses with pretty ideals of righteousness and security.

And for all those pretty words, he would not name Father his heir. Wise, indeed.

Appointing a figure to succeed him would be pointless. No matter what, once Solus was dead, it would be up to the living to determine who the heir was.

Father would seize the throne without hesitation, and in so doing prove his strength to the whole nation. The squabbles over some chair, over whose name appeared on which writ and the like – it is all _inane,_ compared to matters of true import. To the Emperor’s own achievements.

It is almost strange that Solus would happen upon this winning strategy, immersed as he was in these pitiful pursuits. Battles of intrigue and courtly matters, tasteless and dull and all that the old man could do in his state, unfit as he was for battle.

A man who no longer had the _strength_ for true battle.

He shifts, a little, feet drifting apart into a more appropriate stance, back straightening. There is a murmur in the surrounding crowd, some idle gossips or remarks or noises of surprise – he cares not which and has little interest in hearing any more.

Can they sense how little he thinks of their Emperor? How much more they should fear others, than him? How he is soon to be a threat, and Solus is soon to be _dead?_

Zenos leaves, face tight, lips drawn into an almost imperceptible frown.

And yet.

He stops in place, pausing in the hall. No one could see, but it did not matter. His attention is fixed on a memory in his mind’s eye:

Those eyes. Those _eyes_ –

Looking at him, looking through him. Looking _down_ on him, as though disgusted; as though Solus was the one in his prime, and _he_ was the weak, pathetic invalid –

What could that old fool know of strength? He was dying, is dying, with every passing second.

As is he.

His throat swallows, the taste of bitter, fine wine fresh on his tongue. A drink that does not quench, that barely even burned; a substance entirely without substance. Those nobles would have downed them by the bottle had his great-grandfather permitted such indulgence.

How strange. That does sound like a thing that old man would do. Drown himself in lavishness and luxury, pithy delights; finely orchestrated music to soothe the ear, arts and theatres to emulate actions and ‘heroic’ deeds the man had sang of in years long since past, the most decadent feasts available to sate a hunger – for conquest he will never know again.

Solus zos Galuvs truly has become a pitiful creature.

In the end, none of those delights would stop the man’s bones from aching, his flesh from sagging, his skin from wrinkling and growing thin and frail. His hearing would fade, tastes grow sour and sickly, his mind grow frail and feeble. Even if those eyes remained as piercing as every – they were soon to be lifeless as anything else.

Such is fate. The fate of all who live and do not die in battle. Even to fall to subterfuge or illness would be a kinder fate than that, than fading away and losing everything about oneself, losing all one’s strength and being left to cling pitifully to memory.

Being left to watch with those eyes, bright and gilded with delusion, as though he knows everything, as though the whole world is failing to meet his expectations, instead of him failing to survive, as all living things do.

But what is there for the Emperor to do? Old and feeble, to throw himself into battle would be suicide, and a fool rushing in deserved his death. He is not at fault for his weakness; despite the paltry cause he fought for, Solus zos Galvus had fought well, indeed.

Perhaps that is why the man allows himself this delusion. That strange arrogance, as though he is above everything he sees. So detached and indifferent, those eyes belying none of the weaknesses of his flesh. But that weakness is there, as surely as anything else, and the man was clearly not long for this world.

…What was there to _do,_ then, at the end of things?

He stands up straight and walks down the empty hall, footsteps echoing, but not as loudly as a certain gaudy Emperor’s ironclad boots would have.

Zenos sleeps, but not peacefully. He is followed by bright and piecing golden eyes, that strip him to his core. Eyes that knew everything, saw everything…

And found him _wanting._

\----

He awakes the next day, well rested, and dismisses the events of yesterday as the emperor’s well-honed imperial presence. A politician to the core, always intimidating, making gestures and poses that are just that – poses. For show. He makes the to _appear_ intimidating, because he has not the strength nor the sharpness he had in his youth.

Zenos explicitly does not think back on those eyes, haunting and possessed of so much more intent than the man’s grandstanding nature would bely.

Weeks pass, and then months, and then years. The Emperor makes no more appearances before his great-grandson.

Good. Who would want to gaze upon that husk of man, anyways? Parading around with the airs of past power and glories. There is nothing left in him, now. He has van Baelsar attend to those who challenge him to the throne, has Father to lead his armies – Father, and others, Darnus and his pet project, propelled by Midas’s genius.

All these feats being done _for_ him, by others. While he lounges around, rotting away on the throne he clings to like a miser.

Such a pathetic way to die.

Zenos meets Solus zos Galuvs one last time before the man meets his end.

Even when he is grown, fresh and youthful, straight into his prime, the Emperor’s eyes are disapproving on him. Still as bright and gleaming as ever, even though the man practically has one foot in his grave.

The history books show a man with a stripe of white in his forelocks. The man now is white all over, hair wiry and wispy all at once, thinning and frail even as it seems to encompass the whole of his face.

Zenos does not need a decrepit, dying old man’s acknowledgement, much less his approval.

It is a good thing, because Solus zos Galvus will not give it to that empty little boy who had grown into a monstrous, empty-eyed man. He sits back on his throne and wants to close his eyes again, but there is nothing better to see anywhere in this wretched, shattered, broken world.

The boy turns his back on him, large and heavy, weighted steps echoing through the hall as he leaves. Some petty quarrel of youth bothering him, no doubt, but –

But the way those eyes had looked at him. The _blue_ of it. Uncanny, almost. Hades had seen such a blue only once in his life; it is strange indeed, to see it now in a Garlean. The boy’s soul is bright, but nothing special; it is his body, not his aether, which stands above the rest.

As much as it counted, to be above the wretched fools surrounding him. The people of this nation who welcomed tyranny and the wretched imperial attitudes that had been established; who accepted a dictator with nary a thought otherwise, gleefully clinging to whatever chance they see to further their personal interests.

Worthless, foolish, misguided even at their best. He is glad to be rid of them all, soon.

And yet he finds himself wandering, from boredom or idleness, he knows not.

Zenos leaves the room without another thought. He is not the center of attention, not yet, though his absence will be noticed. Father can scold him if he likes. Whatever words he will use, it makes no difference.

At his side, his hand aches with annoying soreness. He flicks it once, and then again; such weakness is unbecoming.

The Crown Prince finds his way to the training hall, and seizes a practice weapon and begins his routines. Without pause or hesitation he moves, from one form to another, raining blow after devastating blow on the empty space before him. Tireless even as the evening drags on, hours passing.

There are no weak men on the battlefield. Only the strong, and the dead.

And Solus does not have long among the living.

“Training again, boy?”

The sword in his hands still in its place, frozen mid-air. Arms stuck in an ungainly position, mid-swing, muscles immediately beginning to burn with the strain of holding a form that demanded movement. Long hours of training, instinct, and common sense all bid he finish the strike, but Zenos does not move.

Nor does he turn to meet those golden eyes. _Boy._

To Solus, perhaps he is.

“The answer is plain to us both.” He hears himself say, distant and faintly annoyed, betraying not a hint of how his arms nearly trembled. “Why do you ask? Are your eyes failing you in your old age?”

Speaking to the Emperor like that –

“Ha!” The laughter that fills the air should be booming, should be cackling and old, should be _anything_ but what it’s like right now – this noise, rich and rolling, should not be coming from a withered old man.

Zenos lowers his blade, letting his hand go lax by his side.

“What brings you here?” An inappropriate way to address an Emperor.

Solus notices, of course. His eyes narrow at him, but there is no heat in the air, in his voice, no anger. Only empty amusement. Perhaps the man truly has gone senile.

“Nothing of note, dear boy,” The appellation is unfit; he is a _man._ But that, too, is clear to both of them – Solus means to mock him. “I like to watch. There is little more to it.”

And suddenly his muscles tense tight, again; there is some meaning in Solus’s words, something more to those eyes that narrow and pierce through him, the way the man stands as though he does not even imagine he could ever be knocked aside.

…An old man, playing games with himself, amusing himself with jokes no one else could understand.

A pitiful display.

Zenso returns to his exercises without another word, and yet, before even his first strike falls upon the air, the door closes with Solus’s departure.

\---

When he hears that Solus zos Galvus dies, Zenos is surprised to find himself exhaling slightly, as though he had been holding his breath beforehand. He dismisses the courier with nonchalance and returns to his duties – and particularly his training – with uncharacteristic vigor.

Things will be exciting now, after all, with the Emperor dead. What struggles, what wars might commence, with the old man gone and a pack of carrion waiting to feast upon a freshly-corpsed throne.

He strikes the empty air with a blow swifter and fiercer than any before.

If someone had stood there, anyone at all, they would have been slain upon the spot. Father, van Baelsar – anyone he could think of, every warrior and Legatus of which he knew – Solus? There is no question –

In the corner of his eye, a glint, just for a moment. It is fain more than a draft upon a gilded belt, but the gleam of gold is unmistakable in reminiscence.

Blue eyes narrow, then focus, and he strikes at the imaginary opponent once more.

There’s a tremor in the Imperial Prince’s movements, a quick and brief motion that is only barely visible at the end of his strikes, as he practices his form through the day, over and over, unfaltering. One might almost mistake it for exhaustion, and the Prince himself does not seem to care, only presses on, unrelenting, as though his only trembling was from impatience.

Those who did not know him mistook the gesture for a stoic sort of grief. To be expected; any reminder of one’s own mortality was certain to unsettle a man.

Those who know him, few as they are, know not what to think. Except that if Solus zos Galvus made even _Zenos_ feel fear – then it was a better thing than anyone had thought, that the man was now dead.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Ebonwing!


End file.
